Chapter XIV: Front Matter (14)

"A thought has occurred to me, gentlemen, which I think I ought to mention to you. It cannot be but that the Countess Claudieuse must be suffering terribly since I am in prison. However, sure she may be of having left no trace behind her that could betray her, she must tremble at the idea that I may, after all, tell the truth in self-defence. She would deny, I know, and she is so sure of her prestige, that she knows my accusation would not injure her marvellous reputation. Nevertheless, she cannot but shrink from the scandal. Who knows if she might not give us the means to escape from the trial, to avoid such exposure? Why might not one of you gentleman make the attempt?"

M. Folgat was a man of quick resolution.

"I will try, if you will give me a line of introduction."

Jacque immediately sat down, and wrote,--

"I have told my counsel, M. Folgat, every thing. Save me, and I swear to you eternal silence. Will you let me perish, Genevieve, when you know I am innocent?

"JACQUES." "Is that enough?" he asked, handing the lawyer the note.

"Yes; and I promise you I will see the Countess Claudieuse within the next forty-eight hours."

Blangin was becoming impatient; and the two advocates had to leave the prison. As they crossed the New-Market Square, they noticed, not far from them, a wandering musician, who was followed by a number of boys and girls.

It was a kind of minstrel, dressed in a sort of garment which was no longer an overcoat and had not yet assumed the shape of a shortcoat. He was strumming on a wretched fiddle; but his voice was good, and the ballad he sang had the full flavor of the local accent:--

"In the spring, mother Redbreast
Made her nest in the bushes,
The good lady!
Made her nest in the bushes,
The good lady!"

Instinctively M. Folgat was fumbling in his pocket for a few cents, when the musician came up to him, held out his hat as if to ask alms, and said,--

"You do not recognize me?"

The advocate started.

"You here!" he said.

"Yes, I myself. I came this morning. I was watching for you; for I must see you this evening at nine o'clock. Come and open the little garden-gate at M. de Chandore's for me."

And, taking up his fiddle again, he wandered off listlessly, singing with his clear voice,--

"And a few, a few weeks later,
She had a wee, a wee bit birdy."

XXIV.

The great lawyer of Sauveterre had been far more astonished at the unexpected and extraordinary meeting than M. Folgat. As soon as the wandering minstrel had left them, he asked his young colleague,--

"You know that individual?"

"That individual," replied M. Folgat, "is none other than the agent whose services I have engaged, and whom I mentioned to you."

"Goudar?"

"Yes, Goudar."

"And did you not recognize him?"

The young advocate smiled.

"Not until he spoke," he replied. "The Goudar whom I know is tall, thin, beardless, and wears his hair cut like a brush. This street-musician is low, bearded, and has long, smooth hair falling down his back. How could I recognize my man in that vagabond costume, with a violin in his hand, and a provincial song set to music?"

M. Magloire smiled too, as he said,--

"What are, after all, professional actors in comparison with these men! Here is one who pretends having reached Sauveterre only this morning, and who knows the country as well as Trumence himself. He has not been here twelve hours, and he speaks already of M. de Chandore's little garden-gate."

"Oh! I can explain that circumstance now, although, at first, it surprised me very much. When I told Goudar the whole story, I no doubt mentioned the little gate in connection with Mechinet."

Whilst they were chatting thus, they had reached the upper end of National Street. Here they stopped; and M. Magloire said,--

"One word before we part. Are you quite resolved to see the Countess Claudieuse?"

"I have promised."

"What do you propose telling her?"

"I do not know. That depends upon how she receives me."

"As far as I know her, she will, upon looking at the note, merely order you out."

"Who knows! At all events, I shall not have to reproach myself for having shrunk from a step which in my heart I thought it my duty to take."

"Whatever may happen, be prudent, and do not allow yourself to get angry. Remember that a scene with her would compel us to change our whole line of defence, and that that is the only one which promises any success."

"Oh, do not fear!"

Thereupon, shaking hands once more, they parted, M. Magloire returning to his house, and M. Folgat going up the street. It struck half-past five, and the young advocate hurried on for fear of being too late. He found them waiting for him to go to dinner; but, as he entered the room, he forgot all his excuses in his painful surprise at the mournful and dejected appearance of the prisoner's friends and relatives.

"Have we any bad news?" he asked with a hesitating voice.

"The worst we had to fear," replied the Marquis de Boiscoran. "We had all foreseen it; and still, as you see, it has surprised us all, like a clap of thunder."

The young lawyer beat his forehead, and cried,--

"The court has ordered the trial!"

The marquis only bent his head, as if his voice, had failed him to answer the question.

"It is still a great secret," said Dionysia; "and we only know it, thanks to the indiscretion of our kind, our devoted Mechinet. Jacques will have to appear before the Assizes."

She was interrupted by a servant, who entered to announce that dinner was on the table.

They all went into the dining-room; but the last event made it well-nigh impossible for them to eat. Dionysia alone, deriving from feverish excitement an amazing energy, aided M. Folgat in keeping up the conversation. From her the young advocate learned that Count Claudieuse was decidedly worse, and that he would have received, in the day, the last sacrament, but for the decided opposition of Dr. Seignebos, who had declared that the slightest excitement might kill his patient.

"And if he dies," said M. de Chandore, "that is the finishing stroke. Public opinion, already incensed against Jacques, will become implacable."

However, the meal came to an end; and M. Folgat went up to Dionysia, saying,--

"I must beg of you, madam, to trust me with the key to the little garden-gate."

She looked at him quite astonished.

"I have to see a detective secretly, who has promised me his assistance."

"Is he here?"

"He came this morning."

When Dionysia had handed him the key, M. Folgat hastened to reach the end of the garden; and, at the third stroke of nine o'clock, the minstrel of the New-Market Square, Goudar, pushed the little gate, and, his violin under his arm, slipped into the garden.

"A day lost!" he exclaimed, without thinking of saluting the young lawyer,--"a whole day; for I could do nothing till I had seen you."

He seemed to be so angry, that M. Folgat tried to soothe him.

"Let me first of all compliment you on your disguise," he said. But Goudar did not seem to be open to praise.

"What would a detective be worth if he could not disguise himself! A great merit, forsooth! And I tell you, I hate it! But I could not think of coming to Sauveterre in my own person, a detective. Ugh! Everybody would have run away; and what a pack of lies they would have told me! So I had to assume that hideous masquerade. To think that I once took six months' lessons from a music-teacher merely to fit myself for that character! A wandering musician, you see, can go anywhere, and nobody is surprised; he goes about the streets, or he travels along the high-road; he enters into yards, and slips into houses; he asks alms: and in so doing, he accosts everybody, speaks to them, follows them. And as to my precious dialect, you must know I have been down here once for half a year, hunting up counterfeiters; and, if you don't catch a provincial accent in six months, you don't deserve belonging to the police. And I do belong to it, to the great distress of my wife, and to my own disgust."

"If your ambition is really what you say, my dear, Goudar," said M. Folgat, interrupting him, "you may be able to leave your profession very soon--if you succeed in saving M. de Boiscoran."

"He would give me his house in Vine Street?"

"With all his heart!"

The detective looked up, and repeated slowly,--

"The house in Vine Street, the paradise of this world. An immense garden, a soil of marvellous beauty. And what an exposure! There are walls there on which I could raise finer peaches than they have at Montreuil, and richer Chasselas than those of Fontainebleau!"

"Did you find any thing there?" asked M. Folgat.

Goudar, thus recalled to business, looked angry again.

"Nothing at all," he replied. "Nor did I learn any thing from the tradesmen. I am no further advanced than I was the first day."

"Let us hope you will have more luck here."

"I hope so; but I need your assistance to commence operations. I must see Dr. Seignebos, and Mechinet the clerk. Ask them to meet me at the place I shall assign in a note which I will send them."

"I will tell them."

"Now, if you want my _incognito_ to be respected, you must get me a permit from the mayor, for Goudar, street-musician. I keep my name, because here nobody knows me. But I must have the permit this evening. Wherever I might present myself, asking for a bed, they would call for my papers."

"Wait here for a quarter of an hour, there is a bench," said M. Folgat, "and I'll go at once to the mayor."

A quarter of an hour later, Goudar had his permit in his pocket, and went to take lodgings at the Red Lamb, the worst tavern in all Sauveterre.

When a painful and inevitable duty is to be performed, the true character of a man is apt to appear in its true light. Some people postpone it as long as they can, and delay, like those pious persons who keep the biggest sin for the end of their confession: others, on the contrary, are in a hurry to be relieved of their anxiety, and make an end of it as soon as they can. M. Folgat belonged to this latter class.

Next morning he woke up at daylight, and said to himself,--

"I will call upon the Countess Claudieuse this morning."

At eight o'clock, he left the house, dressed more carefully than usual, and told the servant that he did not wish to be waited for if he should not be back for breakfast.

He went first to the court-house, hoping to meet the clerk there. He was not disappointed. The waiting-rooms were quite deserted yet; but Mechinet was already at work in his office, writing with the feverish haste of a man who has to pay for a piece of property that he wants to call his own.

When he saw Folgat enter, he rose, and said at once,--

"You have heard the decision of the court?"

"Yes, thanks to your kindness; and I must confess it has not surprised me. What do they think of it here?"

"Everybody expects a condemnation."

"Well, we shall see!" said the young advocate.

And, lowering his voice, he added,--

"But I came for another purpose. The agent whom I expected has come, and he wishes to see you. He will write to you to make an appointment, and I hope you will consent."

"Certainly, with all my heart," replied the clerk. "And God grant that he may succeed in extricating M. de Boiscoran from his difficulties, even if it were only to take the conceit out of my master."

"Ah! is M. Galpin so triumphant?"

"Without the slightest reserve. He sees his old friend already at the galleys. He has received another letter of congratulation from the attorney general, and came here yesterday, when the court had adjourned, to read it to any one who would listen. Everybody, of course, complimented him, except the president, who turned his back upon him, and the commonwealth attorney, who told him in Latin that he was selling the bear's skin before he had killed him."

In the meantime steps were heard coming down the passages; and M. Folgat said hurriedly,--

"One more suggestion. Goudar desires to remain unknown. Do not speak of him to any living soul, and especially show no surprise at the costume in which you see him."

The noise of a door which was opened interrupted him. One of the judges entered, who, after having bowed very civilly, asked the clerk a number of questions about a case which was to come on the same day.

"Good-bye, M. Mechinet," said the young advocate.

And his next visit was to Dr. Seignebos. When he rang the bell, a servant came to the door, and said,--

"The doctor is gone out; but he will be back directly, and has told me to beg you to wait for him in his study."

Such an evidence of perfect trust was unheard of. No one was ever allowed to remain alone in his sanctuary. It was an immense room, quite full of most varied objects, which at a glance revealed the opinions, tastes, and predilections of the owner. The first thing to strike the visitor as he entered was an admirable bust of Bichat, flanked on either side by smaller busts of Robespierre and Rousseau. A clock of the time of Louis XIV. stood between the windows, and marked the seconds with a noise which sounded like the rattling of old iron. One whole side was filled with books of all kinds, unbound or bound, in a way which would have set M. Daubigeon laughing very heartily. A huge cupboard adapted for collections of plants bespoke a passing fancy for botany; while an electric machine recalled the time when the doctor believed in cures by electricity.

On the table in the centre of the room vast piles of books betrayed the doctor's recent studies. All the authors who have spoken of insanity or idiocy were there, from Apostolides to Tardien. M. Folgat was still looking around when Dr. Seignebos entered, always like a bombshell, but far more cheerful than usual.

"I knew I should find you here!" he cried still in the door. "You come to ask me to meet Goudar."

The young advocate started, and said, all amazed,--

"Who can have told you?"

"Goudar himself. I like that man. I am sure no one will suspect me of having a fancy for any thing that is connected with the police. I have had too much to do all my life with spies and that ilk. But your man might almost reconcile me with that department."

"When did you see him?"

"This morning at seven. He was so prodigiously tired of losing his time in his garret at the Red Lamb, that it occurred to him to pretend illness, and to send for me. I went, and found a kind of street-minstrel, who seemed to me to be perfectly well. But, as soon as we were alone, he told me all about it, asking me my opinion, and telling me his ideas. M. Folgat, that man Goudar is very clever: I tell you so; and we understand each other perfectly."

"Has he told you what he proposes to do?"

"Nearly so. But he has not authorized me to speak of it. Have patience; let him go to work, wait, and you will see if old Seignebos has a keen scent."

Saying this with an air of sublime conceit, he took off his spectacles, and set to work wiping them industriously.

"Well, I will wait," said the young advocate. "And, since that makes an end to my business here, I beg you will let me speak to you of another matter. M. de Boiscoran has charged me with a message to the Countess Claudieuse."

"The deuce!"

"And to try to obtain from her the means for our discharge."

"Do you expect she will do it?"

M. Folgat could hardly retain an impatient gesture.

"I have accepted the mission," he said dryly, "and I mean to carry it out."

"I understand, my dear sir. But you will not see the countess. The count is very ill. She does not leave his bedside, and does not even receive her most intimate friends."

"And still I must see her. I must at any hazard place a note which my client has confided to me, in her own hands. And look here, doctor, I mean to be frank with you. It was exactly because I foresaw there would be difficulties, that I came to you to ask your assistance in overcoming or avoiding them."

"To me?"

"Are you not the count's physician?"

"Ten thousand devils!" cried Dr. Seignebos. "You do not mince matters, you lawyers!"

And then speaking in a lower tone, and replying apparently to his own objections rather than to M. Folgat, he said,--

"Certainly, I attend Count Claudieuse, whose illness, by the way, upsets all my theories, and defies all my experience: but for that very reason I can do nothing. Our profession has certain rules which cannot be infringed upon without compromising the whole medical profession."

"But it is a question of life and death with Jacques, sir, with a friend."

"And a fellow Republican, to be sure. But I cannot help you without abusing the confidence of the Countess Claudieuse."

"Ah, sir! Has not that woman committed a crime for which M. de Boiscoran, though innocent, will be arraigned in court?"

"I think so; but still"--

He reflected a moment, and then suddenly snatched up his broad-brimmed hat, drew it over his head, and cried,--

"In fact, so much the worse for her! There are sacred interests which override every thing. Come!"

XXV.

Count Claudieuse and his wife had installed themselves, the day after the fire, in Mautrec Street. The house which the mayor had taken for them had been for more than a century in the possession of the great Julias family, and is still considered one of the finest and most magnificent mansions in Sauveterre.

In less than ten minutes Dr. Seignebos and M. Folgat had reached the house. From the street, nothing was visible but a tall wall, as old as the castle, according to the claims of archaeologists, and covered all over with a mass of wild flowers. In this wall there is a huge entrance-gate with folding-doors. During the day one-half is opened, and a light, low open-work railing put in, which rings a bell as soon as it is pushed open.

You then cross a large garden, in which a dozen statues, covered with green moss, are falling to pieces on their pedestals, overshadowed by magnificent old linden-trees. The house has only two stories. A large hall extends from end to end of the lower story; and at the end a wide staircase with stone steps and a superb iron railing leads up stairs. When they entered the hall, Dr. Seignebos opened a door on the right hand.

"Step in here and wait," he said to M. Folgat. "I will go up stairs and see the count, whose room is in the second story, and I will send you the countess."

The young advocate did as he was bid, and found himself in a large room, brilliantly lighted up by three tall windows that went down to the ground, and looked out upon the garden. This room must have been superb formerly. The walls were wainscoted with arabesques and lines in gold. The ceiling was painted, and represented a number of fat little angels sporting in a sky full of golden stars.

But time had passed its destroying hand over all this splendor of the past age, had half effaced the paintings, tarnished the gold of the arabesques, and faded the blue of the ceiling and the rosy little loves. Nor was the furniture calculated to make compensation for this decay. The windows had no curtains. On the mantelpiece stood a worn-out clock and half-broken candelabra; then, here and there, pieces of furniture that would not match, such as had been rescued from the fire at Valpinson,--chairs, sofas, arm-chairs, and a round table, all battered and blackened by the flames.

But M. Folgat paid little attention to these details. He only thought of the grave step on which he was venturing, and which he now only looked at in its full strangeness and extreme boldness. Perhaps he would have fled at the last moment if he could have done so; and he was only able by a supreme effort to control his excitement.

At last he heard a rapid, light step in the hall; and almost immediately the Countess Claudieuse appeared. He recognized her at once, such as Jacques had described her to him, calm, serious, and serene, as if her soul were soaring high above all human passions. Far from diminishing her exquisite beauty, the terrible events of the last months had only surrounded her, as it were, with a divine halo. She had fallen off a little, however. And the dark semicircle under her eyes, and the disorder of her hair, betrayed the fatigue and the anxiety of the long nights which she had spent by her husband's bedside.

As M. Folgat was bowing, she asked,--

"You are M. de Boiscoran's counsel?"

"Yes, madam," replied the young advocate.

"The doctor tells me you wish to speak to me."

"Yes, madam."

With a queenly air, she pointed to a chair, and, sitting down herself, she said,--

"I hear, sir."

M. Folgat began with beating heart, but a firm voice,--

"I ought, first of all, madam, to state to you my client's true position."

"That is useless, sir. I know."

"You know, madam, that he has been summoned to trial, and that he may be condemned?"

She shook her head with a painful movement, and said very softly,--

"I know, sir, that Count Claudieuse has been the victim of a most infamous attempt at murder; that he is still in danger, and that, unless God works a miracle, I shall soon be without a husband, and my children without a father."

"But M. de Boiscoran is innocent, madam."

The features of the countess assumed an expression of profound surprise; and, looking fixedly at M. Folgat, she said,--

"And who, then, is the murderer?"

Ah! It cost the young advocate no small effort to prevent his lips from uttering the fatal word, "You," prompted by his indignant conscience. But he thought of the success of his mission; and, instead of replying, he said,--

"To a prisoner, madam, to an unfortunate man on the eve of judgment, an advocate is a confessor, to whom he tells every thing. I must add that the counsel of the accused is like a priest: he must forget the secrets which have been confided to him."

"I do not understand, sir."

"My client, madam, had a very simple means to prove his innocence. He had only to tell the truth. He has preferred risking his own honor rather than to betray the honor of another person."

The countess looked impatient, and broke in, saying,--

"My moments are counted, sir. May I beg you will be more explicit?"

But M. Folgat had gone as far as he well could go.

"I am desired by M. de Boiscoran, madam, to hand you a letter."

The Countess Claudieuse seemed to be overwhelmed with surprise.

"To me?" she said. "On what ground?"

Without saying a word, M. Folgat drew Jacques's letter from his portfolio, and handed it to her.

"Here it is!" he said.

She took it with a perfectly steady hand, and opened it slowly. But, as soon as she had run her eye over it, she rose, turned crimson in her face, and said with flaming eyes,--

"Do you know, sir, what this letter contains?"

"Yes."

"Do you know that M. de Boiscoran dares call me by my first name, Genevieve, as my husband does, and my father?"

The decisive moment had come, and M. Folgat had all his self-possession.

"M. de Boiscoran, madame, claims that he used to call you so in former days,--in Vine Street,--in days when you called him Jacques."

The countess seemed to be utterly bewildered.

"But that is sheer infamy, sir," she stammered. "What! M. de Boiscoran should have dared tell you that I, the countess Claudieuse, have been his--mistress?"

"He certainly said so, madam; and he affirms, that a few moments before the fire broke out, he was near you, and that, if his hands were blackened, it was because he had burned your letters and his."

She rose at these words, and said in a penetrating voice,--

"And you could believe that,--you? Ah! M. de Boiscoran's other crimes are nothing in comparison with this! He is not satisfied with having burnt our house, and ruined us: he means to dishonor us. He is not satisfied with having murdered my husband: he must ruin the honor of his wife also."

She spoke so loud, that her voice must have been distinctly heard in the vestibule.

"Lower, madam, I pray you speak lower," said M. Folgat.

She cast upon him a crushing glance; and, raising her voice still higher, she went on,--

"Yes, I understand very well that you are afraid of being heard. But I--what have I to fear? I could wish the whole world to hear us, and to judge between us. Lower, you say? Why should I speak less loud? Do you think that if Count Claudieuse were not on his death-bed, this letter would not have long since been in his hands? Ah, he would soon have satisfaction for such an infamous letter, he! But I, a poor woman! I have never seen so clearly that the world thinks my husband is lost already, and that I am alone in this world, without a protector, without friends."

"But, madam, M. de Boiscoran pledges himself to the most perfect secrecy."

"Secrecy in what? In your cowardly insults, your abominable plots, of which this, no doubt, is but a beginning?"

M. Folgat turned livid under this insult.

"Ah, take care, madam," he said in a hoarse voice: "we have proof, absolute, overwhelming proof."

The countess stopped him by an imperious gesture, and with the haughtiest disdain, grief, and wrath, she said,--

"Well, then, produce your proof. Go, hasten, act as you like. We shall see if the vile calumnies of an incendiary can stain the pure reputation of an honest woman. We shall see if a single speck of this mud in which you wallow can reach up to me."

And, throwing Jacques's letter at M. Folgat's feet, she went to the door.

"Madam," said M. Folgat once more,--"madam!"

She did not even condescend to turn round: she disappeared, leaving him standing in the middle of the room, so overcome with amazement, that he could not collect his thoughts. Fortunately Dr. Seignebos came in.

"Upon my word!" he said, "I never thought the countess would take my treachery so coolly. When she came out from you just now, she asked me, in the same tone as every day, how I had found her husband, and what was to be done. I told her"--

But the rest of the sentence remained unspoken: the doctor had become aware of M. Folgat's utter consternation.

"Why, what on earth is the matter?" he asked.

The young advocate looked at him with an utterly bewildered air.

"This is the matter: I ask myself whether I am awake or dreaming. This is the matter: that, if this woman is guilty, she possesses an audacity beyond all belief."

"How, if? Have you changed your mind about her guilt?"

M. Folgat looked altogether disheartened.

"Ah!" he said, "I hardly know myself. Do you not see that I have lost my head, that I do not know what to think, and what to believe?"

"Oh!"

"Yes, indeed! And yet, doctor, I am not a simpleton. I have now been pleading five years in criminal courts: I have had to dive down into the lowest depths of society; I have seen strange things, and met with exceptional specimens, and heard fabulous stories"--

It was the doctor's turn, now, to be amazed; and he actually forgot to trouble his gold spectacles.

"Why? What did the countess say?" he asked.

"I might tell you every word," replied M. Folgat, "and you would be none the wiser. You ought to have been here, and seen her, and heard her! What a woman! Not a muscle in her face was moving; her eye remained limpid and clear; no emotion was felt in her voice. And with what an air she defied me! But come, doctor, let us be gone!"

They went out, and had already gone about a third down the long avenue in the garden, when they saw the oldest daughter of the countess coming towards them, on her way to the house, accompanied by her governess. Dr. Seignebos stopped, and pressing the arm of the young advocate, and bending over to him, he whispered into his ear,--

"Mind!" he said. "You know the truth is in the lips of children."

"What do you expect?" murmured M. Folgat.

"To settle a doubtful point. Hush! Let me manage it."

By this time the little girl had come up to them. It was a very graceful girl of eight or nine years, light haired, with large blue eyes, tall for her age, and displaying all the intelligence of a young girl, without her timidity.

"How are you, little Martha?" said the doctor to her in his gentlest voice, which was very soft when he chose.

"Good-morning, gentlemen!" she replied with a nice little courtesy.

Dr. Seignebos bent down to kiss her rosy cheeks, and them, looking at her, he said,--

"You look sad, Martha?"

"Yes, because papa and little sister are sick," she replied with a deep sigh.

"And also because you miss Valpinson?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Still it is very pretty here, and you have a large garden to play in."

She shook her head, and, lowering her voice, she said,--

"It is certainly very pretty here; but--I am afraid."

"And of what, little one?"

She pointed to the statues, and all shuddering, she said,--

"In the evening, when it grows dark, I fancy they are moving. I think I see people hiding behind the trees, like the man who wanted to kill papa."

"You ought to drive away those ugly notions, Miss Martha," said M. Folgat.

But Dr. Seignebos did not allow him to go on.

"What, Martha? I did not know you were so timid. I thought, on the contrary, you were very brave. Your papa told me the night of the fire you were not afraid of any thing."

"Papa was right."

"And yet, when you were aroused by the flames, it must have been terrible."

"Oh! it was not the flames which waked me, doctor."

"Still the fire had broken out."

"I was not asleep at that time, doctor. I had been roused by the slamming of the door, which mamma had closed very noisily when she came in."

One and the same presentiment made M. Folgat tremble and the doctor.

"You must be mistaken, Martha," the doctor went on. "Your mamma had not come back at the time of the fire."

"Oh, yes, sir!"

"No, you are mistaken."

The little girl drew herself up with that solemn air which children are apt to assume when their statements are doubted. She said,--

"I am quite sure of what I say, and I remember every thing perfectly. I had been put to bed at the usual hour, and, as I was very tired with playing, I had fallen asleep at once. While I was asleep, mamma had gone out; but her coming back waked me up. As soon as she came in, she bent over little sister's bed, and looked at her for a moment so sadly, that I thought I should cry. Then she went, and sat down by the window; and from my bed, where I lay silently watching her, I saw the tears running down her cheeks, when all of a sudden a shot was fired."

M. Folgat and Dr. Seignebos looked anxiously at each other.

"Then, my little one," insisted Dr. Seignebos, "you are quite sure your mamma was in your room when the first shot was fired?"

"Certainly, doctor. And mamma, when she heard it, rose up straight, and lowered her head, like one who listens. Almost immediately, the second shot was fired. Mamma raised her hands to heaven, and cried out, 'Great God!' And then she went out, running fast."

Never was a smile more false than that which Dr. Seignebos forced himself to retain on his lips while the little girl was telling her story.

"You have dreamed all that, Martha," he said.

The governess here interposed, saying,--

"The young lady has not dreamed it, sir. I, also, heard the shots fired; and I had just opened the door of my room to hear what was going on, when I saw madame cross the landing swiftly, and rush down stairs.

"Oh! I do not doubt it," said the doctor, in the most indifferent tone he could command: "the circumstance is very trifling."

But the little girl was bent on finishing her story.

"When mamma had left," she went on, "I became frightened, and raised myself on my bed to listen. Soon I heard a noise which I did not know,--cracking and snapping of wood, and then cries at a distance. I got more frightened, jumped down, and ran to open the door. But I nearly fell down, there was such a cloud of smoke and sparks. Still I did not lose my head. I waked my little sister, and tried to get on the staircase, when Cocoleu rushed in like a madman, and took us both out."

"Martha," called a voice from the house, "Martha!"

The child cut short her story, and said,--

"Mamma is calling me."

And, dropping again her nice little courtesy, she said,--

"Good-by, gentlemen!"

Martha had disappeared; and Dr. Seignebos and M. Folgat, still standing on the same spot, looked at each other in utter distress.

"We have nothing more to do here," said M. Folgat.

"No, indeed! Let us go back and make haste; for perhaps they are waiting for me. You must breakfast with me."

They went away very much disheartened, and so absorbed in their defeat, that they forgot to return the salutations with which they were greeted in the street,--a circumstance carefully noticed by several watchful observers.

When the doctor reached home, he said to his servant,--

"This gentleman will breakfast with me. Give us a bottle of medis."

And, when he had shown the advocate into his study, he asked,--

"And now what do you think of your adventure?"

M. Folgat looked completely undone.

"I cannot understand it," he murmured.

"Could it be possible that the countess should have tutored the child to say what she told us?"

"No."

"And her governess?"

"Still less. A woman of that character trusts nobody. She struggles; she triumphs or succumbs alone."

"Then the child and the governess have told us the truth?"

"I am convinced of that."

"So am I. Then she had no share in the murder of her husband?"

"Alas!"

M. Folgat did not notice that his "Alas!" was received by Dr. Seignebos with an air of triumph. He had taken off his spectacles, and, wiping them vigorously, he said,--

"If the countess is innocent, Jacques must be guilty, you think? Jacques must have deceived us all, then?"

M. Folgat shook his head.

"I pray you, doctor, do not press me just now. Give me time to collect my thoughts. I am bewildered by all these conjectures. No, I am sure M. de Boiscoran has not told a falsehood, and the countess has been his mistress. No, he has not deceived us; and on the night of the crime he really had an interview with the countess. Did not Martha tell us that her mother had gone out? And where could she have gone, except to meet M. de Boiscoran?"

He paused a moment.

"Oh, come, come!" said the physician, "you need not be afraid of me."

"Well, it might possibly be, that, after the countess had left M. de Boiscoran, Fate might have stepped in. Jacques has told us how the letters which he was burning had suddenly blazed up, and with such violence that he was frightened. Who can tell whether some burning fragments may not have set a straw-rick on fire? You can judge yourself. On the point of leaving the place, M. de Boiscoran sees this beginning of a fire. He hastens to put it out. His efforts are unsuccessful. The fire increases step by step: it lights up the whole front of the chateau. At that moment Count Claudieuse comes out. Jacques thinks he has been watched and detected; he sees his marriage broken off, his life ruined, his happiness destroyed; he loses his head, aims, fires, and flees instantly. And thus you explain his missing the count, and also this fact which seemed to preclude the idea of premeditated murder, that the gun was loaded with small-shot."

"Great God!" cried the doctor.

"What, what have I said?"

"Take care never to repeat that! The suggestion you make is so fearfully plausible, that, if it becomes known, no one will ever believe you when you tell the real truth."

"The truth? Then you think I am mistaken?"

"Most assuredly."

Then fixing his spectacles on his nose, Dr. Seignebos added,--

"I never could admit that the countess should have fired at her husband. I now see that I was right. She has not committed the crime directly; but she has done it indirectly."

"Oh!"

"She would not be the first woman who has done so. What I imagine is this: the countess had made up her mind, and arranged her plan, before meeting Jacques. The murderer was already at his post. If she had succeeded in winning Jacques back, her accomplice would have put away his gun, and quietly gone to bed. As she could not induce Jacques to give up his marriage, she made a sign, and the fire was lighted, and the count was shot."

The young advocate did not seem to be fully convinced.

"In that case, there would have been premeditation," he objected; "and how, then, came the gun to be loaded with small-shot?"

"The accomplice had not sense enough to know better."

Although he saw very well the doctor's drift, M. Folgat started up,--

"What?" he said, "always Cocoleu?"

Dr. Seignebos tapped his forehead with the end of his finger, and replied,--

"When an idea has once made its way in there, it remains fixed. Yes, the countess has an accomplice; and that accomplice is Cocoleu; and, if he has no sense, you see the wretched idiot at least carries his devotion and his discretion very far."

"If what you say is true, doctor, we shall never get the key of this affair; for Cocoleu will never confess."

"Don't swear to that. There is a way."

He was interrupted by the sudden entrance of his servant.

"Sir," said the latter, "there is a gendarme below who brings you a man who has to be sent to the hospital at once."

"Show them up," said the doctor.

"And, while the servant was gone to do his bidding, the doctor said,--

"And here is the way. Now mind!"

A heavy step was heard shaking the stairs; and almost immediately a gendarme appeared, who in one hand held a violin, and with the other aided a poor creature, who seemed unable to walk alone.

"Goudar!" was on M. Folgat's lips.

It was Goudar, really, but in what a state! His clothes muddy, and torn, pale, with haggard eyes, his beard and his lips covered with a white foam.

"The story is this," said the gendarme. "This individual was playing the fiddle in the court of the barrack, and we were looking out of the window, when all of a sudden he fell on the ground, rolled about, twisted and writhed, while he uttered fearful howls, and foamed like a mad dog. We picked him up; and I bring him to you."

"Leave us alone with him," said the physician.

The gendarme went out; and, as soon as the door was shut, Goudar cried with a voice full of intense disgust,--

"What a profession! Just look at me! What a disgrace if my wife should see me in this state! Phew!"

And, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his face, and drew from his mouth a small piece of soap.

"But the point is," said the doctor, "that you have played the epileptic so well, that the gendarmes have been taken in."

"A fine trick indeed, and very creditable."

"An excellent trick, since you can now quite safely go to the hospital. They will put you in the same ward with Cocoleu, and I shall come and see you every morning. You are free to act now."

"Never mind me," said the detective. "I have my plan."

Then turning to M. Folgat, he added,--

"I am a prisoner now; but I have taken my precautions. The agent whom I have sent to England will report to you. I have, besides, to ask a favor at your hands. I have written to my wife to send her letters to you: you can send them to me by the doctor. And now I am ready to become Cocoleu's companion, and I mean to earn the house in Vine Street."

Dr. Seignebos signed an order of admission. He recalled the gendarme; and, after having praised his kindness, he asked him to take "that poor devil" to the hospital. When he was alone once more with M. Folgat, he said,--

"Now, my dear friend, let us consult. Shall we speak of what Martha has told us and of Goudar's plan. I think not; for M. Galpin is watching us; and, if a mere suspicion of what is going on reaches the prosecution, all is lost. Let us content ourselves, then, with reporting to Jacques your interview with the countess; and as to the rest, Silence!"

XXVI.

Like all very clever men, Dr. Seignebos made the mistake of thinking other people as cunning as he was himself. M. Galpin was, of course, watching him, but by no means with the energy which one would have expected from so ambitious a man. He had, of course, been the first to be notified that the case was to be tried in open court, and from that moment he felt relieved of all anxiety.

As to remorse, he had none. He did not even regret any thing. He did not think of it, that the prisoner who was thus to be tried had once been his friend,--a friend of whom he was proud, whose hospitality he had enjoyed, and whose favor he had eagerly sought in his matrimonial aspirations. No. He only saw one thing,--that he had engaged in a dangerous affair, on which his whole future was depending, and that he was going to win triumphantly.

Evidently his responsibility was by no means gone; but his zeal in preparing the case for trial was no longer required. He need not appear at the trial. Whatever must be the result, he thought he should escape the blame, which he should surely have incurred if no true bill had been found. He did not disguise it from himself that he should be looked at askance by all Sauveterre, that his social relations were well-nigh broken off, and that no one would henceforth heartily shake hands with him. But that gave him no concern. Sauveterre, a miserable little town of five thousand inhabitants! He hoped with certainty he would not remain there long; and a brilliant preferment would amply repay him for his courage, and relieve him from all foolish reproaches.

Besides, once in the large city to which he would be promoted, he could hope that distance would aid in attenuating and even effacing the impression made by his conduct. All that would be remembered after a time would be his reputation as one of those famous judges, who, according to the stereotyped phrase, "sacrifice every thing to the sacred interests of justice, who put inflexible duty high above all the considerations that trouble and disturb the vulgar mind, and whose heart is like a rock, against which all human passions are helplessly broken to pieces."

With such a reputation, with his knowledge of the world, and his eagerness to succeed, opportunities would not be wanting to put himself forward, to make himself known, to become useful, indispensable even. He saw himself already on the highest rungs of the official ladder. He was a judge in Bordeaux, in Lyons, in Paris itself!

With such rose-colored dreams he fell asleep at night. The next morning, as he crossed the streets, his carriage haughtier and stiffer than ever, his firmly-closed lips, and the cold and severe look of his eyes, told the curious observers that there must be something new.

"M. de Boiscoran's case must be very bad indeed," they said, "or M. Galpin would not look so very proud."

He went first to the commonwealth attorney. The truth is, he was still smarting under the severe reproaches of M. Daubigeon, and he thought he would enjoy his revenge now. He found the old book-worm, as usual, among his beloved books, and in worse humor than ever. He ignored it, handed him a number of papers to sign; and when his business was over, and while he was carefully replacing the documents in his bag with his monogram on the outside, he added with an air of indifference,--

"Well, my dear sir, you have heard the decision of the court? Which of us was right?"

M. Daubigeon shrugged his shoulders, and said angrily,--

"Of course I am nothing but an old fool, a maniac: I give it up; and I say, like Horace's man,--

'Stultum me fateor, liceat concedere vires
Atque etiam insanum.'"

"You are joking. But what would have happened if I had listened to you?"

"I don't care to know."

"M. de Boiscoran would none the less have been sent to a jury."

"May be."

"Anybody else would have collected the proofs of his guilt just as well as I."

"That is a question."

"And I should have injured my reputation very seriously; for they would have called me one of those timid magistrates who are frightened at a nothing."

"That is as good a reputation as some others," broke in the commonwealth attorney.

He had vowed he would answer only in monosyllables; but his anger made him forget his oath. He added in a very severe tone,--

"Another man would not have been bent exclusively upon proving that M. de Boiscoran was guilty."

"I certainly have proved it."

"Another man would have tried to solve the mystery."

"But I have solved it, I should think."

M. Daubigeon bowed ironically, and said,--

"I congratulate you. It must be delightful to know the secret of all things, only you may be mistaken. You are an excellent hand at such investigations; but I am an older man than you in the profession. The more I think in this case, the less I understand it. If you know every thing so perfectly well, I wish you would tell me what could have been the motive for the crime, for, after all, we do not run the risk of losing our head without some very powerful and tangible purpose. Where was Jacques's interest? You will tell me he hated Count Claudieuse. But is that an answer. Come, go for a moment to your own conscience. But stop! No one likes to do that."

M. Galpin was beginning to regret that he had ever come. He had hoped to find M. Daubigeon quite penitent, and here he was worse than ever.

"The Court of Inquiry has felt no such scruples," he said dryly.

"No; but the jury may feel some. They are, occasionally, men of sense."

"The jury will condemn M. de Boiscoran without hesitation."

"I would not swear to that."

"You would if you knew who will plead."

"Oh!"

"The prosecution will employ M. Gransiere!"

"Oh, oh!"

"You will not deny that he is a first-class man?"

The magistrate was evidently becoming angry; his ears reddened up; and in the same proportion M. Daubigeon regained his calmness.

"God forbid that I should deny M. Gransiere's eloquence. He is a powerful speaker, and rarely misses his man. But then, you know, cases are like books: they have their luck or ill luck. Jacques will be well defended."

"I am not afraid of M. Magloire."

"But Mr. Folgat?"

"A young man with no weight. I should be far more afraid of M. Lachant."

"Do you know the plan of the defence?"

This was evidently the place where the shoe pinched; but M. Galpin took care not to let it be seen, and replied,--

"I do not. But that does not matter. M. de Boiscoran's friends at first thought of making capital out of Cocoleu; but they have given that up. I am sure of that! The police-agent whom I have charged to keep his eyes on the idiot tells me that Dr. Seignebos does not trouble himself about the man any more."

M. Daubigeon smiled sarcastically, and said, much more for the purpose of teasing his visitor than because he believed it himself,--

"Take care! do not trust appearances. You have to do with very clever people. I always told you Cocoleu is probably the mainspring of the whole case. The very fact that M. Gransiere will speak ought to make you tremble. If he should not succeed, he would, of course, blame you, and never forgive you in all his life. Now, you know he may fail. 'There is many a slip between the cup and the lip.'

"And I am disposed to think with Villon,--

'Nothing is so certain as uncertain things.'"

M. Galpin could tell very well that he should gain nothing by prolonging the discussion, and so he said,--

"Happen what may, I shall always know that my conscience supports me."

Then he made great haste to take leave, lest an answer should come from M. Daubigeon. He went out; and as he descended the stairs, he said to himself,--

"It is losing time to reason with that old fogy who sees in the events of the day only so many opportunities for quotations."

But he struggled in vain against his own feelings; he had lost his self-confidence. M. Daubigeon had revealed to him a new danger which he had not foreseen. And what a danger!--the resentment of one of the most eminent men of the French bar, one of those bitter, bilious men who never forgive. M. Galpin had, no doubt, thought of the possibility of failure, that is to say, of an acquittal; but he had never considered the consequences of such a check.

Who would have to pay for it? The prosecuting attorney first and foremost, because, in France, the prosecuting attorney makes the accusation a personal matter, and considers himself insulted and humiliated, if he misses his man.

Now, what would happen in such a case?

M. Gransiere, no doubt, would hold him responsible. He would say,--

"I had to draw my arguments from your part of the work. I did not obtain a condemnation, because your work was imperfect. A man like myself ought not to be exposed to such an humiliation, and, least of all, in a case which is sure to create an immense sensation. You do not understand your business."

Such words were a public disgrace. Instead of the hoped-for promotion, they would bring him an order to go into exile, to Corsica, or to Algiers.

M. Galpin shuddered at the idea. He saw himself buried under the ruins of his castles in Spain. And, unluckily, he went once more over all the papers of the investigation, analyzing the evidence he had, like a soldier, who, on the eve of a battle, furbishes up his arms. However, he only found one objection, the same which M. Daubigeon had made,--what interest could Jacques have had in committing so great a crime?

"There," he said, "is evidently the weak part of the armor; and I would do well to point it out to M. Gransiere. Jacques's counsel are capable of making that the turning-point of their plea."

And, in spite of all he had said to M. Daubigeon, he was very much afraid of the counsel for the defence. He knew perfectly well the prestige which M. Magloire derived from his integrity and disinterestedness. It was no secret to him, that a cause which M. Magloire espoused was at once considered a good cause. They said of him,--